LUCY ROBINSON IS A TEACHER in a primary school in Shepherd’s Bush. Archer and Quinn stand in the corridor outside her classroom waiting for the lunchtime bell to ring. It clangs and echoes throughout the draughty building and is followed by the scraping of chairs and excited chatter of hungry kids, who file out one by one and make their way to the lunch room under the guidance of a matronly school assistant.
‘Come in,’ says Lucy, a petite Scottish woman with mousey hair held back by a black Alice band with a bow. She closes the door behind them. ‘Thank you for coming. I couldn’t quite believe it when I saw the video.’
‘When did the video come to your attention?’ asks Quinn.
She wrings her hands together as she speaks. ‘A friend of mine sent me the link on Facebook. Since the murders of those homeless men, social media has gone bonkers. It’s everywhere.’
‘You reported your brother as being in one of the videos on YouTube,’ says Quinn.
‘Yes, horrible it was too. The person in that mask . . .’
‘When did you last speak to your brother?’ asks Archer.
‘I already told the police this three weeks ago when I reported him missing.’
‘We’re sorry to ask again, but this is important.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s OK . . . I’m just worried about him. It was about a month back. We usually talk every week, but I’m married and we have separate lives and different friends and sometimes you just lose track. I did this time and feel so guilty . . .’
‘Why do you feel guilty?’
‘He’s not been very well. He suffers from depression, has done since he was a teenager. I really hope he hasn’t done something silly.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
She shrugs. ‘Well, you hear of people taking their own lives, don’t you?’
‘Was your brother suicidal?’
‘I’d say no, but who knows? He’s my wee brother and I love him, but with depression it feels, sometimes, that I just don’t know him, or what he’s thinking. He’s been missing for weeks, you can’t help but think the worst. I always kept an eye on him when I could and would let myself into his flat if I never heard from him, just in case.’
‘Does he live in London?’
‘Yes, that video was taken in his flat in Clapham. It’s been up on the Internet for three weeks, I checked – since around about the same time he went missing.’
‘I apologise for asking this, but it may be important. Has he been in any trouble?’
Lucy frowns. ‘What do you mean trouble?’
‘Has he been involved with any suspicious people?’
‘No . . . Well, how would I know? He’s my brother, but he’s also a very private person. Anyway, everything is on the police report. What I want to know is why my brother is on that killer’s website?’
‘That’s what we intend to find out,’ says Quinn.
‘You mentioned you let yourself into your brother’s flat. Do you have the keys?’ asks Archer.
‘Yes.’
‘Could we borrow them?’
She looks at them both and shifts on her feet.
‘Just for an hour or two. It could really help us understand what happened to your brother.’
She nods her head. ‘Of course.’
‘One final question. Robinson is your married name? What is your brother’s name?’
‘Peters. His name is Ben Peters.’
*
The air is damp and cold and an eerie quiet resonates in Ben Peters’ basement flat in Clapham. Archer and Quinn pull on their blue disposable gloves and enter the living room-cum-kitchen. The interior is unfussy, tidy and modern with no signs of a struggle or a break-in.
Archer stands at the kitchen window where the mask appeared, looks back into the room and on a corner bookshelf, sees it.
‘There,’ she says.
Quinn follows her gaze.
Secreted among a row of paperback novels is a home security camera.
‘This is the sort of camera that records motion and sends it to your phone,’ says Quinn.
He slides away the books from either side and lifts the camera out. ‘It’s disconnected from the mains, which means there may not be a video archive. Those films will be stored in the cloud anyway, not on this device, which makes it next to useless.’
‘Bag it anyway. We’ll take it in for quick fingerprint turnaround.’
‘Do you think our killer has Ben Peters?’
‘I hope not.’
Archer flicks a switch by the kitchen door, lighting up a small yard at the rear. She unlocks the back door and steps outside. The space is around ten-by-ten with a small patio table, two rickety chairs, a rubbish bin and steps leading up to a wooden gate. There is a sliding bolt lock on the gate, but no padlock. Archer takes her torch, leans in for a closer look and shines the beam on the bolt, which is easily accessible from the other side for someone who is tall enough. She notices dent marks on the steel.
‘There was a padlock and it’s been forced,’ says Quinn.
‘It would seem so.’
‘I’ll get Forensics in to comb this place.’
He takes out his smartphone and photographs the damaged bolt.
A notification, containing a Tinder dating app banner notification, pops up on his screen.
Quinn slides the banner away. ‘Excuse me,’ he says.
‘Mr Popular,’ says Archer, with a wry smile.
‘To date, ma’am, all it does is provide a shallow promise of a better life.’
‘I see.’
‘Nothing more.’
She retreats down the steps.
‘Probably best not to tell Lucy Robinson about our assumptions on her brother.’
‘Of course.’
*
Back at the station, Archer is finishing up a call with Grandad, who has just eaten an awful hospital dinner of gristly meat and mashed potatoes. The conversation turns to Jamie, and to her amusement he keeps asking after him as if he is a long-lost friend. She hears a nurse interrupt their conversation.
‘Got to go. Time to sleep apparently. It’s barely seven o’clock!’
Archer smiles. ‘Bye, Grandad. Sleep tight.’
‘Bye, my girl.’
Relieved that he seems to be doing better, she turns to her computer screen and watches the short Last Supper video featuring Ben Peters over and over again. He is wearing a blue checked shirt and is seemingly unaware of the frankly terrifying faceless mask that appears at his kitchen window. She searches through the other videos and finds Hanged Man. It’s uncomfortable viewing, the dog tears viciously at the mask of the man bound and hanging upside down.
She wonders if the masked man at Peters’ kitchen window and the man in Hanged Man could be the same person, but instantly realises they are not.
‘You fool!’ she whispers to herself. How has she not seen it before?
‘Quinn. Look at this,’ she calls, displaying both videos alongside each other.
His eyes dart between the films and after a few moments sees it.
‘I guess now we know what happened to Ben Peters.’
Archer watches with a grim feeling as the dog gnaws and pulls at the bloody mask of the hanged man who is wearing a blue checked shirt, the same shirt that Ben Peters wears in the Last Supper video.